


Touch

by AcrobatElle



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Porn with Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 13:34:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5207744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcrobatElle/pseuds/AcrobatElle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't until her first date with Killian that Emma realizes how much she's been starved of physical affection in her life.</p><p>Set in some nebulous point in 5B. Speculation but no spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

Physical affection is not a foreign concept to Emma, but her first date with Killian makes her realize how much she’s been starved of it in her life. 

She had an inkling when she first came to Storybrooke -- Henry is free with his hugs and it stirs a vague sense of something she’d been missing but unable to name. But Killian’s inability to stop touching her (getting his hand back so he could hold her as if he wasn’t already more than enough, _God_ ) flips a switch in her brain, and instead of shying away from it she finds herself reaching for _him_ even more than he does her.

Maybe it’s because there are no expectations; he doesn’t want her because she is a mother, or a daughter, or the Savior, and his attention feels all the more light and comfortable because of it. And so she can’t stop -- threading their fingers together, bumping her shoulder against his, snuggling into his side as they walk back to the loft. The new leather of his jacket is a caress against her bare shoulders and she wants more, can barely stop herself when she pulls away from his embrace at her doorstep.

It just feels so damned good.

 _He_ just feels so damned good.

She’s greedy for it, even more so after she returns his heart to him, during those glorious six weeks when she can touch and explore and revel in his uncomplicated, steadfast love (she knows it even if he doesn’t say it yet) without the rest of the world getting in the way.

In Camelot she is selfish and is desperate for it, clinging to him as if it will keep the little pieces of herself that still feel familiar from floating away. She presses her hand to his chest every chance she gets, letting her fingers drift over the leather to tease at his skin, lingering there when he kisses her. The steady beat she feels underneath tethers her to something warm and beautiful, not the cold, sharp metal of the dagger.

\----------

When it is all over, _finally_ over and they are warm and safe and alive in each other’s arms, she buries her face into his neck and _sobs_. Huge, gasping, full-body sobs she doesn’t even try to contain, months of despair and anxiety dissolving into the purest form of relief she has ever known. Her hands clench and grip and her knuckles turn white against his back and for once he has no real words to offer, just breathes and sighs and melts into her, whispering her name against her hair in a broken voice and squeezing her so tightly it hurts and it’s still not enough.

Henry and her parents are there as well, their love and comfort welcome but still a fragile thing after Camelot. It’s not what she needs. She is grateful for them, but all she wants is Killian. She can’t bear to be away from him for more than a moment before she plasters herself to his side, not letting go as they make their way home.

Her family seems to understand and mostly lets them be. But she and Killian are repeatedly asked if they are okay, and they always respond in the affirmative. Automatic, meaningless words.

They are not okay.

His eyes are haunted in a way they never were when he spoke of Milah. His hand grips hers just a little too tightly, his kisses just a little too desperate. She still suffers a restless buzzing under her skin, a compulsive itch grating in the gaping hollow left by dark magic.

They retire to her sterile, empty house with its white picket fence and fall into bed together, too tired and vulnerable for sex but eliminating any space between them as they settle in for the night. Emma knows they’re clinging to each other in an unhealthy way, but when she pulls back she feels ripped apart at the seams and all thoughts of _healthy_ and _responsible_ fly from her head as she wraps herself around him.

\----------

Emma feels only marginally better after a fitful bout of sleep, waking for the fourth time in as many hours to find him pulling her so tightly against him it would be suffocating if she didn’t need it so badly. Something raw in the back of her mind whispers _you only got six weeks last time. How long until you’re torn apart again?_

She turns in his arms and meets his lips with hers, devouring him and trying to crawl inside because it will never be enough, two broken halves not quite making a whole. He brings her down because of _course_ he does, cupping her cheek and remaining firm and steady, allowing her to settle into a languid, easy pace against his lips.

They finally smile at each other as they undress, tentative and breakable. He’s too thin under her wandering hands, all sinew and muscle and skin, and she knows she is too. But there’s something soft as they come together, an underlying sweetness to their desperation. It’s almost like it used to be.

They remain on their sides, facing each other with their knees tangled together, her leg resting over his hip and his hand pulling at her thigh. They can’t move vigorously in this position but it’s almost better that way -- she can watch him like this, their faces a whisper apart. He’s beautiful by any definition of the word but breathtaking when he’s inside her, lips twitching upward and love in his eyes.

He’s ready to come before she is and she can feel him holding himself back, slowing his hips and reaching between them to bring her up with him.

“No, no, it’s okay,” she murmurs against his lips, gripping tighter at the back of his head and urging him on.

His breath stutters against her face. “No, love, you should -- “

“No, _no_ , it’s okay, I love you, just let go,” and she’s barely even in control of her words but something in her voice lets him know it’s enough, that she wants this for _him_. He breaks with a delicious groan, his hips stuttering against hers and his eyelashes fanning across his cheeks.

He weakly tries to protest again once he comes back to himself, but she cuts him off with a biting kiss. “You can make it up to me later,” she tells him, nipping at his bottom lip.

Before they shower, she finds her phone and fires off a group text to her family.

_We’re okay, just need a little time. We’ll talk soon. Love you all._

She powers down the device before anyone can respond. They are still not okay.

They hold hands across her breakfast table, him more interested in rubbing his thumb over her skin than picking at his food. She idly realizes that she’ll need more chairs once everything is back to normal, but it seems too far away to concern herself with. _Normal_. The word is ugly and foreign.

She finds herself at a loss once the dishes are put away. It’s barely past sunrise, but a thick blanket of gray clouds keeps the light low and cold. There is no crisis, no sword to forge, no darkness to banish, no rescue mission.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admits before she can voice her own apprehension, his fingers dancing restlessly in hers. He‘s vulnerable in a way she‘s never seen before; he didn’t bother to put on his hook or brace after they showered, a pair of sweatpants the only clothing on his too-thin frame, his hair too long, dark shadows under his eyes.

She leans into him, her arms sliding around his waist and touching her forehead to his. “You‘re exhausted.”

“Aye.”

Something in how quickly he agrees startles her, another reminder that even though they are safe and together, everything still feels off, somehow. She reaches up and traces her thumb under his eye, frowning at the bluish tint to his skin.

“Come on, let’s go back to bed.”

“We’ve barely gotten up, love.”

“I don’t care.” She leans up to brush her lips over his and he slides his hand behind her head before she can pull away, pressing in gently, his lips soft and cherishing, and for a moment the world rights itself on its axis.

She pulls away and brushes his hair out of his eyes, fighting back a smile when he leans into her palm. “I don’t suppose I can argue with that. Bed sounds wonderful, so long as you’ll be in it with me.”

She does smile then, a bit of his old self coming through in his words. “Like I’d let you out of my sight?”

\----------

It’s not quite a nightmare.

It’s worse.

She doesn’t jolt awake in a fit of terror, doesn’t scream -- in fact, she hardly moves at all at first, consciousness slowly rising to the surface as her eyes adjust to the darkness of the bedroom. She must have pulled away from Killian in her sleep, his arm draped across the empty space in the middle of the bed.

She can’t even really remember what she’d been dreaming about, other than she’d had her dark magic back, the power buzzing in her veins like fire and too much alcohol.

And now the darkness is gone again, a hollow space clawed into her chest as she tries calm her racing thoughts.

_Breathe, Emma. Just breathe. You’ll be --_

She is not okay.

She sits up and frantically surveys the room, trying to find something, anything she can -- her eyes fall on the lamp on her bedside table and she reaches out with her mind, dipping into her magic, a simple flick of her wrist willing it to light.

It does with a too-loud click and Emma can’t feel anything inside her, no darkness rearing its head, no burst of insidious energy to tempt her. She tries again -- on, off. On, off. On, off, on, waiting for the heady rush to hit her.

It never does.

Killian stirs next to her, his hand flexing against the sheets when he realizes she’s no longer in his arms. “Emma?” His voice is thick with sleep as he sits up, but with one look at her he’s wide awake in an instant. “Bloody hell, you’re _shaking_. What’s wrong?”

He reaches for her hand but she yanks it away, shaking her head and refusing to meet his gaze.

“Emma.” His voice is harsh and commanding, and she finally turns to look at him. “What happened?”

Her mouth opens but she can’t find the words, and his face softens while his hand traces soothing circles over her back. “Was it a nightmare?”

“I had the Dark One’s powers again.” Her voice is flat and far away.

His hand works its way up to her neck, gently pressing into the muscles there. “It’s gone now, love. You won’t ever have to -- “

“Killian, _I liked it_.”

His hand stills at her shoulder and she looks down at her fists balled in her lap, her face burning with shame.

“I liked it. And now it’s gone again, and I just tried using my own magic and for a split second I was actually _disappointed_ when the darkness didn’t come back.” It sounds even more pathetic out loud.

She shakes her head and dares to look up again. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

He waits a long time before speaking, his hand a heavy weight against her.

“Emma,” he finally says, his voice measured and careful, “I seem to remember telling you once about how tempting the darkness can be; I know better than anyone. You’ve had an unimaginable amount of power taken from you. It’s going to hurt, and it’s going to take time for everything to feel normal again.” His fingers toy with the ends of her hair. “It doesn’t make you weak.”

His arms circle around her and she’s almost in his lap. He’s warm and gentle but Emma’s skin still feels pulled too tight and her hands haven’t stopped trembling. “We’re a fucking mess, aren’t we?” she asks.

“Unquestionably,” he agrees, the word buried in her hair. “How do you feel, love? Be honest.”

 _Like an addict craving a fix._ “Empty. It’s so strange to have so much… I don’t know. It’s just gone and I feel…”

“Hollow,” he finishes for her. “What can I do?” he asks, nosing at the skin of her shoulder.

“You’re doing it.”

“No, I’m not.” He lifts his head and meets her eyes, because of course he knows. Soft caresses and sweet words can barely touch her when she‘s this tense in his arms, stretched thin and ready to break. “What do you _need_?”

She considers him for a moment, briefly too ashamed to ask but this is _Killian_ , for heaven’s sake. She answers by straddling his lap, swallowing down his surprised noise as she pushes him back against the headboard and bites at his lips, his jaw, every square inch of skin she can reach. “You, God, just you.”

He catches up to her quickly, bending his knees and planting his feet on the bed for leverage. An arm snakes around her waist and he pulls her down while pushing up with his hips, a delicious slide that hits her right where she wants it.

She whines against his throat and spreads her thighs as far as she can, letting him take all of her body weight. He groans at the pressure and his mouth finds hers, the sweep of his tongue matching the upward rolls of his hips. The sensation is glorious and not anywhere close to enough for Emma, too many layers of clothes between them and she doesn’t fucking _want_ foreplay, not right now.

She grabs a handful of his hair and yanks hard, wrenching his mouth from hers and pulling herself from his lap, reaching for the hem of his pants. “Off, get these off. Right now.”

His eyes are dark as he kicks the offending clothing away and watches her strip off her shirt and her own pants. He’s on her before she can remove her panties, pinning her back to the mattress with a bruising kiss and his knee between her thighs.

She tugs at his hair again as she pants into his mouth, locking eyes with him. “Don’t you dare go easy on me.”

He growls against her lips and she feels the harsh drag of his stubble across her throat while his hands tugs at her underwear, ripping the flimsy fabric off of her. He bites at her ear and grips her hip painfully and this, _this_ is what she needs and he knows it, gives it to her without hesitation.

“Lie back and _don’t. fucking. move_.” He bites the words into her neck and slides down her body with purpose, settling below her and pulling one leg over his shoulder. He doesn’t waste time teasing her and she doesn’t want him to, his lips closing over her clit and sucking hard.

A strangled moan comes out of her and her hips buck up into his face and _fuck_ , it’s good. His hand finds her lower abdomen and presses down, not letting her writhe against him and he’s ruthless in the way he works against her, a steady rhythm of suction with every movement of his lips and tongue designed to make her come as hard and as quickly as possible.

Emma’s leg twitches helplessly against his back and her chest heaves, but otherwise she obeys his command and lies still, drowning in the hot tide of his mouth against her. Her moans rise in pitch as he works her over, pulling her tighter and tighter until she snaps, flying apart and letting the rush fill up the cracks within her.

He doesn’t bring her down from it, doesn’t even give her a moment to _breathe_ , just lifts up and buries himself inside her while she’s still feeling those dizzying pulses between her thighs.

She gasps and swears and claws at his back but doesn’t tell him to stop as she clenches around him. The hot drag of him inside her is too much and altogether perfect, and she tries to lift her hips to meet his thrusts but he is relentless against her, not letting her catch up.

“That’s it, love, just take it,” he groans appreciatively into the curve of her neck as she wraps a leg around his back and digs her heel into his ass. His hand lifts under the small of her back, changing the angle and letting him slide even deeper, the pressure ripping a gasp from her throat.

“You’re bloody perfect,” he murmurs before capturing her lips, the words -- so soft and so very Killian -- grounding her even as her nerves are scraped raw.

She can feel the familiar burn building in the base of her spine and she rides it out as his thrusts grow quicker and more erratic. She grabs his face and makes him watch her as she falls again, fluttering around him in a glorious tight squeeze. His hips stutter two, three times against her and he follows her down, his eyes never leaving hers as they unravel together.

She loses time for a bit while her breathing slows, not aware of much beyond Killian’s lips drifting over her face, planting little kisses on her nose, eyelids, cheeks, the buzz under her skin so much better than any magic.

She finds herself draped over his chest once she settles back into herself, drawing mindless patterns on his skin with the tips of her fingers.

“Feeling any better?” She feels the words more than hears them and she nods, not quite able to explain, relieved in knowing she doesn‘t have to.

“Think this’ll go in the storybook?” she mumbles against his chest.

He chuckles, his hand squeezing at the small of her back before resuming its feather-light tracing over her skin. “I think that might be a bit much for a fairy tale, love.”

“Probably. But we still get to have a happy ending, right?”

She feels his breath hitch underneath her, but he keeps his voice remarkably steady. “I like the sound of that. Very much.”

Emma lifts her head to meet his in a sweet, aching kiss before pulling up the covers to ward off the growing chill in the room. She turns off the light with a quick flicker of magic, just as easy as breathing, as easy as Killian’s arms around her.

Before she drifts off, she thinks that what they have couldn’t ever be captured on paper anyway. Not on a medium so fragile and easily burnt.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at acrobat-elle.tumblr.com. Come say hi!


End file.
